


Gotta Hold On to What We've Got

by Entwife_Incognito



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s07e10 Nothing Gold Can Stay, F/M, Love, Relationship Problems, Romance, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entwife_Incognito/pseuds/Entwife_Incognito
Summary: Tag to 710 'Nothing Gold Can Stay.' Anything could happen after that cliffhanger. I love imagining their conversations. Maybe this . . . One-shot. Angst and love. Disclaimer: I own nothing about The Mentalist.Originally posted at FFnet on February 8, 2015. Now here, with minor edits to improve readability.





	Gotta Hold On to What We've Got

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Bon Jovi song of Teresa's lullaby. You probably already knew that. ;-)

"Patrick!"  


Her voice was loud, commanding. He stopped and turned, silent and attentive.  


"What are you doing? You said you would never run away again!" Her voice was husky with pain and outrage, her words almost forced out.  


She had been so stunned and quiet, he wasn't sure Teresa knew he had kissed her cheek, was surprised that she had spoken at all. "I'm not. I'm not running away. I just need a break."  


"Don't go. Don't leave. Not now."  


"I'm not going far. And not for long. I need the weekend even more now. I need you." Teresa's face was frightened and full of pain, twisting his heart like a taut length of rope. He held out a hand as he took a step toward her. "Come with me."  


Shiny wet streaks formed on her cheeks where the tears rolled down and she said nothing. Nor did she move.  


Patrick wanted to cry for her. So delicate and tender inside, but so unused to noticing her needs in an emotional situation, much less voicing them. Where he panicked and took outrageous risks, she set her needs aside and stood quiet and powerless, watching others move through her life as if she had no say. "I want you with me. I just have to get away, whether you go or not."  


"I, I . . . Patrick, I need you."  


This was very serious. Teresa had never talked about needing anyone. She seemed unable to take a step. Her arms opened up and he hurried to fill them, then squirmed out to take her into his embrace and fold her close to his breast. "It's all right. Don't worry."  


"I thought you were leaving me . . . b-b- uh, b-breaking up."  


"My god. No! I would never do that." Loosening his grip on her, he looked into her red-rimmed eyes. "What are we? Teenagers in high school who don't know what they want? No. We work our problems out. Even when it seems impossible. Sometimes it takes a . . . a . . . breather when there's a kind of . . . stalemate."  


Relieved enough to let go, she sobbed against his chest. "You don't just walk away. I felt like I was dying. We need to keep working this out! You said you don't even care if you die and leave me!"  


Patrick lightly stroked her head, then pressed it close. "I didn't mean it that way! I was comparing my pain to die and my pain to see you die. There's no comparison." Freeing her head, he leaned back so she could see his face. "If I die, it's over, no more pain. If you die, my pain never ends."  


Wrestling with the instinct to slug him, she squirmed fiercely in his arms, fighting her own agitation, shoving a shoulder against him instead. "You IDIOT! And if you die, _my_ pain never ends! You'd leave me, and you could never come back!" Her voice got quieter. "I'd want to die every day without you."  


"I . . . well, I didn't think about that."  


"No. You didn't. You are a selfish beast, Patrick Jane. You'd scar me for life!" She was winding up for a second round of rage.  


"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."  


"You did! You know you did. Don't lie . . . to me." The storm in her face was formidable.  


He thought it best if he stayed quiet. Maybe she would sense the stalemate for herself.  


"Nobody dies, in this relationship."  


It saddened him that Teresa still didn't know what she was saying. Platitudes to stiffen him to imitate bravery. "The risks to you are much greater than the risk to me."  


"Not if you keep taking crazy chances to, to save me. It doesn't save me if you get killed." She muttered something.  


"What's that?"  


"You big dope!"  


"Niiiiiice. But I'm glad you finally set me straight." He couldn't help but smile, bending to kiss her but blocked by her next outburst.  


"Oh, you're full of shit."  


Patrick stepped back and waited for Teresa to decide what she wanted to do. When she had calmed a little, he said, "We're alike, you and I."  


"I doubt that."  


"It's true. We're identical."  


"We couldn't be more different."  


Patrick shrugged. "That's true, too."  


"Now you're just being mysterious."  


He waited, but Teresa just snuffled and leaned into him again, rubbing her cheek on his vest, her clasping little fingers rhythmically clenching his sides. She'd never let him see her this weak before.  


"Each of us . . . Our worst terror is losing the other. When it hits, we can't control our reactions."  


Her tear-swollen face turned up to him. "Let's go. Where were you going to go?"  


"Well, since you weren't going with me . . . maybe the Airstream. Do you want to go somewhere else?"  


"No. It's nice there. No one around, trees and fields, the quiet. I like it."  


"Me, too. Just let me tell Abbott and the others . . ."  


Jane knew Abbott and Cho had been watching them in concern for quite awhile, waiting for them, or at least for Lisbon. They could see something important was happening between the couple. Jane raised one arm in salute and the two men nodded, waved and turned to go. "They know, sweetheart. C'mon."  


When they got out of the car, Patrick took Teresa's hand and they started walking to the Airstream, crunching gravel under their feet. The sun was still bright in the clear, mid-afternoon sky, the temperature comfortingly warm.  


"How are we identical?"  


"I never really noticed it until today." He tugged on her hand until she came close enough to kiss her temple.  


Her small hand could only wrap two fingers of his large one, and she squeezed them tightly.  


"What happened when you thought I was leaving you?"  


Teresa took several shallow breaths before she could make a start. "I . . . I couldn't think. I froze. I didn't know what to do. I just thought . . ." Her face was tight with pain. "I, I had a million thoughts but I couldn't speak."  


"Can you remember your thoughts, now?"  


"'But you love me.'"  


"Uh-hnnn . . ."  


"'I love you.' 'How could you?' 'You promised.' 'You're mine.' 'I want you.' It sounds so childish when I say it."  


"Mmm . . . what else?" What man wouldn't want to hear these words from the woman he loved?  


"Just a gnawing in my body . . . down here." She put her hand over her lower abdomen. "I wanted to yell at you, scream! Curse! Kiss you, bite you, make you stop and hold me." Overwhelmed just thinking about it, she pulled away and raised her hand as if to slap him and said in a strangled, agonized voice, a scream twisted and muted by pain. "Never go away!"  


Gently, he put his arm around her shoulders. "You're trembling."  


"But I . . . I couldn't say anything, do any . . . thing. Like I was locked in. It was horrible. I thought I was going to die."  


When they went in, Patrick immediately started preparing tea and Lisbon, coffee.  


"That was me. What about you?"  


"Me? Oh, you've seen me. I get frantic. Every thought and movement is focused on only one thing. 'Save Lisbon. Keep her out of danger.'" Patrick turned to her and gently held her wrist as she lifted her hand to press a button on the coffee-maker. 'Because if you lose her, you'll die."  


A rueful smile, "Maybe we are alike . . . But you said you don't care if you die—" She made a fist and hammered against his chest. "You don't care if you leave me alone!" She turned and pounded both fists against him, growling out sobs.  


Putting his hands over her fists, he pressed them to his thumping heart. "Because if you lose me, you'll die?"  


"Yes! Yes. Yes. I don't even make sense."  


"You make perfect sense, Teresa. You feel abandoned. Like with your parents." He released her hands so she could finish making her coffee and began dunking a teabag into his cup.  


"I know." She rubbed tears from her cheeks. He handed her his hanky and she took it gratefully, swabbing her face.  


"We get to the same place when we are truly afraid we will lose each other. It's terror. And it changes everything, takes over. You shut your emotions down and take it, stay where it's safe. I act mine out and flee, to escape it."  


Teresa knew the tragedy that had traumatized Jane. She thought he'd been taking license with it because he wanted them out of law enforcement. That he thought if he made a big enough pest of himself, she would give in to him. But, oh, for Jane to have that horrible, terrorized feeling . . . no . . . she didn't want that! If it was the same thing as hers, after it got to a certain point, he couldn't control that . . . nor control how he acted because of it.  


Patrick sat at the table. It wasn't close enough to her, but it would have to do while he drank hot tea. "Your heart is just as easily broken as mine. We have to be so careful with each other's hearts."  


"We try, Patrick. We are!"  


"I know."  


They finished in quiet thoughtfulness, listening to nature spin its day toward evening outside the open window.  


Teresa set her cup aside. "Finish up, okay? I want to rest with you. We can talk more." She looked at the messy bed where so much of their new life together was celebrated.  


They'd left in a rush for the funeral that morning. Their pillows had fluffed themselves, but in her mind she could see the dents they left when they got up. His in the middle where he mostly slept on his back. Hers on an end, depending what side of him she finally landed on, usually satiated. The wad of the blankets always ended up on her side, Patrick grousing that she was freezing his ass off because she stole the covers. Dried wet spots where they'd made love in the night. Smirking, she thought buying sheets in bulk might be a good idea. It was very much their bed. It had Patrick in it and she loved it.  


When she got up to put her mug in the sink, he was right behind her, setting his tea things next to it.  


Following her to the bed, too, he helped change the bottom sheet and put the covers in some order, restraining himself from saying anything about them being all on one side. "Scoot over and you can snuggle under my arm." He put a knee on the mattress.  


"Would you mind lying on me, instead? Put your head on my lap so I can look at your handsome face and play with your hair."  


"I thought you might want a cuddle. You've been through a little storm today."  


"So have you. A big storm. I want to comfort you. You took care of me at the cemetery."  


The way she said it, holding an arm up to give him room. Signaling him to come, in that traffic cop way with her fingers together in one motion, tucking her chin. So decided and firm. He loved when she bossed him a little. This was nothing to argue about. Angling his body to accommodate the size of the bed, he did as she asked, his right foot dangling off the mattress, her hand settled over his heart as she stroked his hair. Warm relaxation trickled through his body.  


They were quiet for a while and, after taking a deep breath, Patrick closed his eyes. Teresa hummed something he didn't recognize as she fingered his curls. At least it wasn't 'Livin' On a Prayer.' "Can I tell you a story?"  


"I don't know. It seems kind of silly. I'm not a little girl."  


"It's a special story. Please let me tell you. I listened to your atrocious lullaby."  


Teresa lightly backhanded the top of his head, then cuddled closer. He'd managed to sing a little of that lullaby with her, even if he had made up a sarcastic lyric. "All right, but if it's boring . . ."  


"It won't be. Because it's the child in you that gets so hurt, she freezes up. I'm talking to her."  


"This is weird."  


He smiled mischievously when he opened his eyes. "Look at who's telling the story . . ."  


Breaking into a grin, Teresa rolled her eyes and put her hand on his cheek. "My weird boyfriend. Okay."  


"I love that small girl inside you, the one you were so long ago." Patrick thought of her picture, the one he'd taken from a book in her childhood home when they'd visited her brothers. She looked about ten or eleven.  


"She reminds me of my Charlotte and I want to take care of her, give her all my love. But she pretends she doesn't need my care, that she can do it all herself. Because she was hurt very badly, horribly, so many times . . . she learned how to do for herself and the three rowdy, hurt boys who depended on her."  


Teresa smiled, thinking about when her brothers were little.  


"They could need and want, feel . . . and look to her to fill their needs, fix everything, make them feel safe and loved. But she would never trust anyone to do that for her again. Anyone she depended on, trusted, had abandoned her. She knew they didn't mean to, but she was angry anyway. Because it made her feel she would die and she didn't ever want to feel that way again. So, she made herself shut up about need and want and feeling because she would die, to feel how all alone she was and no one to help her, take care of her or care about her life. No one would ever know how hurt she was inside, that she needed, wanted, and was filled with strong feelings, too. She forbade herself to tell anyone. She didn't need anyone else. She could take care of herself.  


"I do feel that way." She put a hand to his cheek to make him look at her. "But not quite as much as I used to."  


"I'm not surprised." He patted the hand on his chest. "So, she got strong. And most times it was enough. She didn't get close to anybody, guarded herself very well from ever falling in love. She was the best in her work there ever was and she focused her whole life on that. But love had its way with her. She didn't want him . . . until that's all she wanted, every waking minute. Even in her dreams."  


"Hey! You don't know that!" Teresa flushed to remember those hot, wanton, yearning dreams.  


"Just guessing . . . since I know the lusty woman I sleep with every night."  


She rolled her eyes, teasing him. "Go on with your story, dream boy."  


"Let's see. Oh, yes. The girl got her wish for true love. Even though she was terrified that he would leave her, because he had done just that, twice, before she knew he loved her too. But she wanted him enough to brave her fear."  


"Love opened her up, calmed her down, made her happy. But love was not perfect. Sometimes he made her deeply afraid that he would go again. When the terror filled her, inside she was a cacophony of protest and need, want and feelings. But since she was not allowed to say those things, she had nothing else to say. So she would go silent, staring while her eyes filled with tears. All her power was frozen and she could only watch as people did whatever they would in her life. Even leave her, because she wasn't allowed to ask them to stay. That would be need, want, feelings."  


"I don't want to hear any more. It's too sad."  


"It is now, but the story is still happening. It could change."  


"Maybe." Her legs shifted under him, uncomfortable for more than one reason.  


"Maybe it did already. You froze up. But then told me off good."  


"I tell you off plenty of times."  


"True. My ass is always a bit frayed."  


She backhanded the top of his head again, letting out a reluctant giggle.  


"But you did snap out of it and tell me you needed me, you wanted me to stay, you felt like you would die. That's a lot."  


"That's because you came back, Patrick."  


"Interesting bit of reverse psychology. Hmmmm. But the point is, you stopped me. You called me back." His long index finger booped her nose.  


"Oh, I don't know what happened. I don't want to think about it anymore right now. It was awful. And you're not making sense. Let's talk about something else."  


He knew she would think about it and ask her questions until she figured out what he meant. "Okay . . . I told you a story. Now you tell me one."  


"Ja-ane . . ."  


"You know my story. Would you tell it to me?"  


"You want me to tell you _your_ story?"  


"Yes."  


"That you already know because you live it."  


"Yes. Please." What he really wanted to know was if she really understood his story. How she saw it.  


"You _are_ weird. But, yes, I'll tell you." She studied his peaceful face and he waited for her. "It's kind of a long story . . . "  


"There's nothing I would love more, Teresa. Take your time and tell it how you want to."  


Concentrating, she made a start. "Patrick was a boy without a mother, and with a father who used him to make money and tried to beat the tender feelings out of him. Because only marks had feelings for people."  


"But the tenderness couldn't be beaten or ridiculed out of Patrick because that was just his beautiful, loving heart. He met a girl with a heart like his and fell in love. And they ran away to get married and make a happy life."  


"And they had a baby girl, Charlotte, who they both loved so much. But a monster killed his beautiful wife and little girl and Patrick fell into the darkest darkness there is and he wanted to die. In fact, he felt already dead. After awhile someone came to help him and when he got a little better, he found the monster and killed it."  


Smiling, Teresa rubbed the scruff on Patrick's chin and jaws. "And he fell in love with the woman who helped him find the monster. He was so afraid to tell her because he thought that would make a monster come and kill her, too. But he loved her so much it made him desperate and brave and he finally told her." She paused, then sniffed pointedly. "After waiting so long that the woman was on her way out of town to start another life."  


"Yes, yes . . . go on with the story."  


"It made his whole life to find out that she loved him, too." She giggled self-consciously and Patrick tickled her ribs. She pushed his hand away. "Don't! There's more story."  


"Now that he had her, he was even more afraid that she would get killed because she had a dangerous job. He was so smart he could hide his fear from almost anybody and thought up all sorts of plans to keep her safe, even if he risked his own life, even if it made his true love angry with him."  


"Because when that awful terror hit . . . his smart brain couldn't think anymore . . . and his brave heart took over. It had to keep her from harm at any cost. And it did. But it was killing him inside. Because the odds were ruthlessly out of his control. Soon, Patrick was afraid all the time."  


Teresa bent and touched her cheek to his forehead. "I don't want to tell any more story." It hurt to think of him afraid all the time.  


"It's a great story. You stopped just in time." Scooting up to sit next to her, he pulled Teresa under his arm to kiss the top of her head and rub his nose in her hair, filling himself with her scent. "You have great practice in talking to hurt boys, Teresa. I didn't know you understood me so well. You don't know how much it calms me down."  


"I think it sort of fell into place when I told your story just now."  


"Yeah." He bent to her for a soft kiss.  


"I think you understand me, too, even if I never have put it into words like your story."  


"Both our feet are on the same ground all of a sudden. I feel safer, like you're really with me."  


"It doesn't solve the problem, though, Patrick. I want to."  


"Me, too. But at least I can think about it without feeling scared the whole time because I have to hide it from you."  


"And if you get scared, you can tell me."  


He watched her look outside, thinking, the low sun that shone through the window setting fire to her hair, and he touched where it was warm.  


Teresa squinted. The light was strong and golden. Maybe they could sit outside after a while. "I think you're right, Patrick. We are identical . . . in different ways."  


"I want you to be happy. I want to be someone who helps you be happy, not someone who gets in the way of your happiness."  


"You don't. I want you to be happy, too. With me." She shoved against his chest, hard. "Not away from me. Ever!"  


He got up for the bathroom, kissing her before he left, then looking at her wonderful face. Her cheeks were salt-burnt, lips dry from crying and talking, eyes still swollen and scratchy. "You can go ahead of me, if you want."  


"No. Go on. I'm all right." She didn't want to move just yet.  


Mischief was in his sly smile as he raised an eyebrow.  


"I'm not being a martyr. I'd trample you to get to the bathroom if I needed it. Go on!"  


When he came out, Patrick brought a warm washcloth and her jar of moisturizer. Sitting halfway on the bed, he motioned her to sit up and began to clean Teresa's face.  


"Mmmm. That feels nice. Thank you. My cheeks were getting scratchy."  


"Washing the salt away will help a lot. And so will this . . ." He opened the jar and smiled as that thread of her nighttime scent filled the space between them. "I like this stuff."  


"Sometime, I'll put it on you. Ohhhhh, Patrick. Your fingers are divine."  


"So all the girls tell me."  


"I'm all your girls."  


He bussed her lips. "Perfectly stated, if grammatically quizzical. Lie back, now. I want to touch you some more. I love to handle my precious things."  


"Miser."  


"Come to my counting house, little lady. You're my hoard. Just let anyone try to steal my treasure."  


Except for Teresa's contented sighs, they were silent as he worked the cream gently into her skin, massaging the tension in the delicate muscles of her face. Raising one arm, she rested her fingers near his elbow, magnifying the rolling comfort of his movement. Patrick finished and set the jar aside, then got up to remove his clothing, and Teresa sat up to watch him until he turned for her.  


Quietly, he stripped her of everything except bra and panties, sapphire satin that came alive in the golden light. Letting her relax again. he smoothed silky brunette curls from her face. His hand drifted down, traversing the swell of her bosom, the rounds so perfect.  


Lifting a breast free, he held it gently in his hand, studying its color in the light, the blooming rose of the nipple, the tiny blue veins that were a part of its network of nourishing blood, the delicate softness of her skin there. With the fingers of his other hand, he tenderly manipulated the nipple, firming it up, the wrinkles of the aureole tightening under his touch.  


Teresa watched his hands, stealing glances at his beautiful face, absorbed in this small part of her. With fingertips, she traced the lines of his many smiles, the long crease down one cheek and the lines in his forehead, the soft tender skin of his eyelids and the tickle of his golden lashes. His scruff excited her when, slowly, he bent forward and put his mouth to her breast, sampling with his lips, tasting, pulling the nipple into his mouth, testing, then teasing as if knowing it for the first time.  


Lifting her hips he pulled her from a sitting position and settled her head on the pillow, then bared the other breast for his fingers. His breathing turned more desperate, his mouth hungry, sending waves of pleasure straight to her core. His curls tickled her chest and chin until it was too hard for her to breathe and she gripped his shoulders, moving her body against him.  


He pulled back, waiting for her to calm as he studied her, calling up maps of her sensuality. "I'll be softer. Is that okay?"  


Teresa recognized his mood. It craved the nerves under her skin. Special places only he had found. If she let him, he would conjure something unreachable any other way.  


His touch was a rehearsal, solidifying the pathways of his knowledge. Sensitivities changed from time to time and he mapped the new variations. Where the quivering was, what made her arch or roll her hips or throw her head back, reach for him, grip his arms. Her sounds, how loud, what kind and where on her body triggered them. Her creamy freckled skin, what blushed, what flushed, what made her nipples stand, her legs part. Sliding his fingers under the leg of her panties, he ruffled the tuft on her delta, then traced her limbs, the long muscles that defined her form. How much could she take before her hips began to undulate, her legs to open and beg for him with the wet, hot pink of her core? Was there any touch that would make her clitoris stand and peek from its soft hood without putting a finger on it?  


"Hey. Sweet, my sweet Patrick."  


His eyes, glassy deep and dark, found hers. They filled with her. "I love you, Teresa."  


"You don't have to memorize me. You can discover me every day. Because I'll be right here with you."  


Her words weren't to calm him or make him forget that he could lose her to a violent death, tomorrow. These were words of love, of commitment and of her desire, her intention never to leave him. And he shared those feelings as a mirror shares its images.  


"I want to study the other side. I'll help you turn over."  


She licked her lips, inviting him for a kiss. They both knew it would inflame them and start a fierce coupling. Instinctively, her gaze traveled to his ready erection.  


Patrick's eyelids lowered, his lips parted, tongue darting out as he slowly shook his head, tempted and hard as steel. He pushed the satin crotch of her panties into the wet underneath to watch it soak to navy, then took his hand away.  


This was going to be so good. She turned to her stomach and wiggled out of her bra when he unhooked it.  


Moaning, he slid both hands down the columns of muscle framing her spine, then molded his hands to her sides, fingered her ribs. This always made her sigh and relax.  


"Mmmm. That feels so good." She let a long breath flow out with a high-pitched sigh.  


He slid a hand under the leg of her panties to cup her ass, rubbing the pliant skin, lightly tickling the bottom of the cheek with his fingertips. Wiggling her hips, raising them and gasping in the peaks of pleasure, Teresa wanted more.  


When he couldn't get to the other cheek without tearing her panties, he tucked his fingers in the waistband and slowly pulled it below the rounds of her ass. Such succulent hips pushing at him raised the heat in his veins and he breathed heavily, "Teresa!" rubbing the whole of her flesh, squeezing handfuls, and lowering his head to kiss them with wet sucking noises.  


She lifted her hips, groaned and turned her head toward him, eyes dark and pleading. "Your mouth, put your mouth on me." She opened her legs for him and he slipped watery sapphire satin down her body and let it drip to the floor.  


Delaying, he rubbed her cleft flesh, dipping an occasional finger low and forward. He found her sweet moisture, filled his fingers and brought them up to lick, uttering a low lion's purr.  


She turned again to watch him. "Patrick, please. Just a touch, just your long . . . straight . . . nimble . . . graceful . . . finger."  


He smiled. "Move one of your legs up so I can get to you." Holding her gaze, he dipped again and moved a thumb, slick with her juices to the puckered bud between her cheeks, an anchor to the movement of his long middle finger. He played there, delving inside, rubbing outside, teasing his way to the pearl of her sex. Her sounds were petulant, needy, begging, and when he finally put a finger there, she groaned with relief.  


Hand wrapping his own hard flesh, he readied himself to enter her. Working her hard and fast, he watched her hips begin to buck and then curl when her orgasm hit. She was still contracting when he entered her, pulling her hips close to meet his vigorous thrusts as he lay on her. He knew where the spot was and he rolled on it relentlessly until she ground even harder and gave a hoarse cry. Her soft warmth squeezed, drew him deep until he thought he might faint but she pushed her hips harder against him and he came hot, the spasms grabbing him at the root to purge him. Ebbing away, they released him and he laid his cheek on her back, breathing like a bellows.  


He knew it was physical, but he felt so empty, laid open and bare. He couldn't lose this, lose her. "I don't want to lose you." His voice was soft with emotion, his tone beseeching.  


The shock of his words ran up her back in a chill. Their meaning felt new, almost an ominous warning, though he'd said them several times over the past several weeks. Before, they'd seemed selfish, but not now. Now they spoke of real pain and fear.  


Teresa turned and sat up, drawing him closer so that he lay against her breast. Her eyes started to fill with tears and she dug her fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp. "Hey . . . you just had a really strong orgasm . . . after a long, sad day. It's just magnifying that trough."  


Sitting up more, he leaned forward to savor the relief when their foreheads met. Her skin was warm and he didn't move away.  


"I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not trying to take control of your life. The fear . . . the fear is so overwhelming . . . that I . . . I can't control it. I feel . . . I feel like I did be—before Red John. I wish I didn't. I wish I could be who you need. I—I can't. Please don't hate me . . . don't leave me. I don't want to lose you. I don't know how to make it stop."  


She watched him succumb to the storm that broke down his heart.  


He'd never had a post-orgasmic trough like this! When she set her hand on his neck, he only cried harder. "Don't . . . don't, Patrick. I don't want to lose you. I won't lose you. You're stuck with me, okay?"  


He nodded through the snuffling sounds he made as he tried to choke off sobs. "Until you get sick of my panic."  


"No. Never. We'll work it out. We'll figure out something so you don't have to panic." What was she saying? But, they had to. "Nothing is more important to me than us, than our relationship. Nothing." It felt like the first truth she'd ever spoken.  


Something as hard as stone crumbled inside Patrick's chest and his heart broke free, tender and raw, red with new blood. He felt he was breathing for the first time in long memory.  


"Really, Patrick. You're my number one. It doesn't matter what I do or where we go, it's you and me, okay?"  


"Yeah. Okay." He sniffled.  


"That doesn't mean I have to give up who I am or the things I love to do."  


"I've been trying to let you have that. It isn't working."  


"With our skills, there's a million things we can do." What was she saying? Again! "I didn't mean my job. I just mean I'm living for two now. You matter. And I love that, you know?"  


"Oh, god, yes, I know. But I didn't know you felt it."  


"Even if I don't get every single thing I think I want. My life is a part of yours now. And yours is a part of mine."  


He nodded again, pulling her close to give a sweet kiss. "We're together."  


"Yes. And it's the best thing that ever happened to me."  


"Me, too. I love you so much, Teresa. I'd be dead without your big heart to love me back."  


"I think I loved you first." She pulled free from his sweaty forehead.  


Patrick shook his head. "Uh-uh. No. I was first, thank you."  


She looked into his poor, wrecked face. "You're welcome." Gently taking a handful of curls on the side of his head, she tugged, smiling. "Don't worry so much."  


What was that look on his face? Chagrin.  


He tried to laugh. "Okay. I'll take that one off my plate."  


"I mean it."  


"I know. I know. You, too."  


She wiped slicks of tears from his cheeks as he tried to sniff up his runny nose. Her pants on the floor where he had dropped them, she dug in the pocket and found her hanky, so delicate that it nearly floated from her hand to drift over his long fingers. He pinched it from the air.  


"I hope you don't want this back." He honked into it, big and wet.  


Teresa laughed. "No." Unable to resist, she ruffled the curls on top of his head, glinting gold in the softening light.  


"Keep it as a souvenir, you big wonderful boy, you." A warm expression filled her face and she cocked her head to look at him. Love shone from her eyes as she laid a soft hand on his jaw. "I love taking care of you a little bit, you know?"  


"You don't know how much I need it."  


"I think I'm starting to . . . Don't leave me out, Patrick. I promise to try to listen and help. Come to me when you need my comfort. Tell me."  


"I still need it, now."  


Teresa held his gaze. "I'm here."  


Looping his arms loosely at her waist, he settled his head against her chest and neck, sighing as she took him into her arms.  


"You need to do the same for me, Teresa."  


"The same what?"  


"Tell me when you need something, want something, what you're feeling. Even when you're afraid."  


"I hope I won't have to be afraid like that again."  


"I mean I want you to tell me those things, anytime."  


"That sounds . . . whiny . . . needy. Anyway, I never think about that."  


"You do. People do. All the time."  


"Who wants to hear that? Sounds like a personal problem."  


"Hmmmmm. You need practice. I can help."  


"I don't want you bugging the shit out of me about my feelings."  


"Tsk! You're a hard case, Teresa Lisbon. So messy inside! Feelings and needs lying all over the place, ignored and tramped on . . ."  


"Stop that."  


"I'm not doing anything."  


"You're plotting."  


"You're more mysterious than I am. It takes more thought."  


What had she started? "Okay. Here's my feelings. I'm thirsty and hungry and I need a shower. If you want to help me, make me a sandwich." She let go of him, got out of bed and trod a little too hard to the bathroom.  


Patrick sighed. "I see I'm on my own on this one." He called back to her as she entered the bathroom, "I'll have to wing it and you'll have to have patience with me."  


"I wouldn't press my luck on patience, if I were you."  


The shower started and she began to sing out. "Whoa-oh, livin' on a pray-er . . ."


End file.
